by Tim Lebbon
‘Shoppe of Miniatures?’ She struggled to read the letters that appeared backward to her. ‘What does it mean?’
Beyond the door was a busy street populated by giants. Was it possible Mark had been right about the hand?
An insistent tap sounded hard against the glass. Startled, Mary looked over to find the biggest child she’d ever seen staring right back. The child tugged on her mother’s purse strap and pointed at them.
‘They’re the reason we disappear,’ Mark whispered. ‘They’re the enemy. The army men are just for show. Their guns are empty. No one can save us, except us. Are you ready?’
One moment, he was squeezing her hand.
The next, he let go and was falling through the sky.
Instinctively, she looked away. Couldn’t bear to see the sight of her love broken to pieces. And while she wasn’t looking, the army men appeared, collecting their weapons, and nudging her out of the way.
Were their guns really unloaded as Mark claimed?
Was it possible the men in green weren’t the ones she should fear?
Did the vanished really end up somewhere beyond the glass window where they were tortured by giants for the rest of their days?
If she didn’t break herself at that moment, she risked never seeing Mark again.
She forced herself to look down at his crumbled body, wondering why she found herself hesitating when it was so clear what she needed to do.
Though her husband had been made especially for her, they’d never loved one another.
The small town she’d been in since the beginning had grown increasingly boring and stale.
The only things she had to look forward to were August and Mark.
They’d claimed their love was eternal, now it was up to her to prove it was true.
She inched toward the ledge, ready to join him, when the giant door swung open and a familiar male voice welcomed the giants inside.
All around her, the army men stood immobilized, while Mary found herself frozen in place, gazing helplessly at the broken body of her true love below.
Next thing she knew, a shadow fell over her, as the voice of a young girl, said, ‘This one, Mommy. This is the one I want. Look how perfect she is.’
THE LIONS
KEITH BUCKLEY
ON AN OVERCAST AFTERNOON IN JUNE OF 1937, Helen Hoffman limped through the front door of her Bronx apartment complex favoring a bad left knee and wearing a shapeless mustard yellow floral sundress. She began to wheeze as she fumbled with her key ring, having spent the entirety of the morning at the zoo, as she usually did, walking alone and stopping only once to quietly watch the female Barbary lion called ‘Bedouin Maid’ pace methodically in the enclosure while the father of her cubs—an exemplary specimen named ‘Sultan’—lay poised like a sphinx, eyes closed, head turned into the misty mid-afternoon summer wind. Bedouin Maid’s unmistakeable elegance and the humility with which Sultan conveyed the strength of his entire species had made the pair of lions the unofficial mascots of the Bronx Zoological Gardens. They were celebrities in their own right and their perfectly sculpted forms adorned nearly every postcard in the gift shop. They were a splendid vision to behold, and Helen took much delight in their meditative purposefulness. On days like this she would sit on a bench near the informative bronze placard, lean her right elbow on her cane, brush aside her long gray hair and intensely narrow her deep green sunken eyes at the face of whichever lion was stationary before speaking in thought. She would tell Sultan things that she never had an opportunity to say out loud in real life, such as how she respected him greatly but felt he was probably much more gentle than his peers. She would confess to Bedouin Maid that she had done a better job raising her cubs than she and Joe had done raising their two ungrateful son of a bitch children, or that she sincerely hoped they were as content as they appeared. Sometimes she would ask them questions and carefully notice any subsequent movement that might be mistaken for response. But most days she just sat. Quiet and watching.
Helen was a large woman instead, much older than she had been when she first starting visiting them, and she was not so delusional as to believe that neither fact was obvious. However, since the death of her husband––at the hands of one or more unidentified shadowy men who slink through the alleys that surround the Beer Halls looking for jewelry hidden on the bleary eyed patrons using a knife point as a dowser might use a divining rod––she was newly determined to change the one characteristic of the two that she had a say in. The elderly were easily victimized in her neighborhood, reports of theft or violence were not uncommon. Helen knew she could not get any younger but of course she could take better care of herself. She didn’t have to be a victim. She could eat better on the weekdays. She could take a long walk through the sprawling zoo on the weekends. She could look at the lions and contemplate what it might be like to be fearless and full of beauty.
Helen finally found the key that matched the lock to her rusted mail slot in the foyer of the building on Vyse Avenue. It slid in and opened without much force at all, and Helen had thought on more than one occasion that if anyone wanted to steal her mail all they would have to do would be to jam a butter knife through the crack under the lock and snap it open. But she didn’t get any mail since her husband had passed and therefore owned nothing worth taking. Joe was the only one that ever wrote her letters, and even he did it begrudgingly when away on business for more than 21 days. That was his rule. He figured that at the three week mark his wife of 30 years might begin getting a little restless, and since there was still a bit of love in his heart, a modicum of kindness to spare, Joe Hoffman would send a letter from wherever he was that day saying something to the effect of ‘I love you. I’m thinking about you. I hope you are fine. Sales are slow but we’ll get by. Goodbye my dear. JH’. Not exactly poetic but fulfilling in the sense that Helen could use the sight of his handwriting to move her back to when those particular flourishes of pen held her heart in the light and made her feel different. Grandiosity of language wasn’t ever necessary to sustain their bond and that was a good thing for Joe because he was not the kind of man to allow himself to be vulnerable. But he was honest, and when she opened his letters and read that he dreamt of her often and longed to hold her again she knew he was not bullshitting, and that to her was more vivid and full of love than any prose a great poet could muster.
That day, however, June 22nd in the year 1937, there was something in her mailbox: a beige piece of paper the size of a notecard, unremarkable in texture with no images on it save for President Thomas Jefferson’s profile in the upper right corner with the words ‘US POSTAL CARD’ above it and below the price of the card itself: ‘ONE CENT’. Her name and address were written in a foreign hand beneath a set of emotionless, formal instructions ‘THIS SIDE OF CARD IS FOR ADDRESSES’, lest anyone mailing it think the side of a letter with the stamp on it is the back. There were no canyons or towers or flags or vistas, no sign that it had come from anywhere particular at all except ‘through the mail.’ But in the top lefthand corner was a name she recognized from a past life.
Jack Lyle.
Hurleyville, New York.
Jack Lyle with the shiny black hair, dancing courageously, drunkenly, in the fireman’s hall where the air lay still and thick with smoke and the inextricably cluttered conversation of acquaintances. 28-year-old Quartermaster Jack ‘Pop’ Lyle, Class of 1910 Naval Academy graduate and best friend of newly engaged Shipwright Joe Hoffman. Helen put her fingers to her lips and recalled the way his mustache felt against them when they kissed, clutched the faux pearls of her necklace and remade the memory of a bold, proud hand sliding up her dress to hold her breast like a savage priest would offer up a heart to the gods. A party to celebrate her engagement and she had given herself to another man. That was not the Helen she knew, not the mother her children would know, not the woman Joe would write home to. But it was the Helen she was in that moment and one she had not seen since.
Helen could not
bring herself to turn the bland paper over. She ignored the fact that there was something so forgettable about its appearance that it almost seemed dire and let the potential of the message on the reverse side carve a river through the dry flatland of a tired widow’s dull routine. What had compelled him to write to her? Was he sending his condolences? No, the time for that had passed and the era that dawned now was one of rebuilding. Was it possible Jack had surveilled the terrain from a distance and was now breaking ground in what could potentially be an empire in the twilight? Yes, of course it was. Jack had missed her as she had missed him, had been consumed with the thought of her since that night so many years ago, had visions of what might have been and was seeking to align those visions with her own. He too had lived a life full of tiny voids, moving gracelessly from one sufficient distraction to the next, never having fully loved anything like he loved her in that dark closet on that loud night. Like Helen he discovered on lonely mornings that he longed to be somewhere else with someone else and wrapped himself so completely in undistracted fantasy that often the world felt unreal. He was without a doubt still as strong as he ever was, still as certain of his place and hers, still dangerous and hard and mysterious. Helen stood there for what felt like epochs, surrendering to the infinite possibilities of what was written on the other side of that dull, pictureless postcard. She was an entire population’s worth of new souls in the span of just several minutes. Wondrous, lustful beasts. Placid saints. Women with varying wants ranging from just one more kiss before he goes to a weekend of making young love in a place from which no one ever leaves. In one world they remained dark secrets while in another they were colorful pageants of family. She was everything. All. Except exactly what she was.
When the front door opened and Vivian Meyer, who lived on the 3rd floor, came into the building, Helen grabbed the postcard tight as if it might be stolen from her and re-awoke to the drab colors of June 22nd of 1937. She strained a smile and upon receiving one in return finally turned the postcard over. The sight of what she found made her dizzy, independent of the meaning the mere seven words contained.
Dearest Helen,
Mother and I are finally
That was all. Then there began a faint but persistent voice from the mouth of the cavern.
‘Helen!’
She turned and saw Vivian reaching a hand out to touch her elbow. ‘My gosh honey, are you okay?’
‘Huh?’ said Helen, as surprised by the voice as she was the feeling of a tear rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away, embarrassed.
‘Why are you crying dear? Is everything okay?’
Helen did not respond. She looked at the postcard for a moment and then placed it back in the mailbox. Then she locked it.
‘Yes. I’m fine. I just need to take a walk.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Vivian said. ‘Rain is coming. Where ever will you go?’
Helen took a deep breath and stared listlessly into the fog on the other side of the glass door.
‘To feed the lions.’ she said, and stepped out into the low clouds that softened the warm, wet New York afternoon.
THE SAME AS THE AIR
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
THREE DAYS AGO, WHEN I WENT TO THE EBERSOLE HOUSE, I didn’t peek through the window or call out or try the door handle before I turned the key in the lock and walked in. I just watered the aspidistra, sprayed the orchid and sprinkled fish-food into the bowl, where Goldie rose to the surface, opening and closing his—or her—mouth.
This time, I peek through a window into the empty snug and then through another, from which I can see that the hallway is still clean and bare, before I take out Edda’s fluffy owl key-ring and open up.
I call out when I’m standing inside and I wait for the answer but it’s already clear that the house is empty. It still has that closed-up, gone-away feel. Their shoes aren’t on the rug; their jackets aren’t thrown over the newel post. It’s absolutely quiet and still and I don’t even want to move, though I call for them a second time when I go into the kitchen to check that Goldie’s still swimming, and again when I tiptoe upstairs to their bedroom, where the bedspread doesn’t have a crease in it.
I stare at the door across the landing, but I don’t go in.
A little later I’m walking through my own front door, trying to release the stiffness in my shoulders, or maybe shake off the dust that’s settling in the Ebersole house.
‘Marni?’ I glance into my own kitchen, at the postcards on the pin-board, the trail of Edda and Dick’s travels mapped out in pictures. I don’t like the silence that comes back and I hurry up the stairs, throw open the door to my daughter’s room—but that’s quiet too. She’s left the Everly Brothers on the turntable but it’s switched off.
Through the window, I see the corner of the pool; two feet, close together in the water.
‘Marni!’ I run down the stairs again, almost falling down the last few, then rush to the back door, and stand there while my pulse thrums in my ears.
She’s drifting in the pool, only that. She’s on her back, her arms crossed behind her head as if on an inflatable, but she’s simply floating; her eyes gaze up into the sky, which is story-book blue and scattered with fluffy clouds.
It takes her a moment to stir, as if her name had to pass through layers of deep water to reach her, and she suddenly flails as if my voice has robbed her of the ability to float. Splashes darken the Mexican tile.
‘Mom! You startled me.’
‘I see that.’ I try to smile, hiding how she startled me too, though it’s not easy with our friends so present in my mind, and the thing they’d written: Say hello to Ada.
‘So, are they back?’ she asks, and my smile fades.
Dick and Edda were supposed to be back two days ago. That’s when their vacation ended; when Edda should have dropped in to collect her keys, when Dick should have gone back to the cider mill that fills one side of Maplewood with the scent of fermenting apples.
I shake my head, thinking of that empty house, and I have no idea what to tell her.
What’s really weird is, the next day, when the police arrive, I already have the postcard in my hand.
I’ve been looking at it more closely, examining the postmark, the picture they selected, their every word; and of course, that extra line—the one that gave me a chill even when I first saw it. But I had told myself then that everything was fine; the cold trickle that ran down my back was only the air-conditioning fighting back the humidity a little too hard.
It had begun with my name, written neatly over our address: Margret. I had put the misspelling of Margaret down to the Florida heat, but then Edda had gone back and carefully written ‘Miss’ over the top of it, rather than ‘Mrs.’—as if she’d forgotten my husband, Paul, altogether. Was that a joke, or something else? Was it because the postcard held some message meant only for me?
When I had read the block of text, nothing else was strange, not really:
Dick and I having a wonderful time. Weather is beautiful. Today we went swimming for a couple of hours. The water is wonderful warm, 84 degrees the same as the air. On Thursday we leaving for the East-Coast.
Love Dick + Edda.
PS. Hi Marni! Next card we send is going to be for you again.
I had put that grammatical lapse, ‘we leaving’, down to her rushing; that, and the way she’d crossed out the word ‘water’ and scribbled another word over the top. It still gave me a strange feeling though, mainly because I couldn’t read the word she’d added—what else could they have been swimming in?—but then I realised it said ‘gulf’. Of course it did, and that was perfectly normal too, except that the idea of Dick and Edda going swimming was just so odd; not something they’d do at all. Why had the word ‘water’ not been enough? And why was her description so entirely different from the image they’d chosen—the Ringling Residence, a mock Venetian-Gothic mansion with its marble fireplace and arches and balconies and chandeliers? That was more their kind of thing, the sor
t of place Dick would admire while smoking a cigarette, without having to dirty his neat leather shoes.
It had all just seemed a little off, though it was nothing more than that—until I saw the line she must have appended last of all, written in a space at the very top of the card but upside down, as if floating there.
Say hello to Ada.
I had stared at that for a long time, as a darker feeling took hold somewhere inside me: dread, perhaps. The first inkling that something was very deeply wrong.
I had tried to put the postcard out of sight, but Marni had seen it. She snatched it from my hand, read quickly then stuck it on the pin-board and left. I had no idea if she’d noticed that extra line and I didn’t point it out to her. I figured if she hadn’t, it was best hidden right where it was, in plain view: the picture outward, revealing nothing but that opulent, mannered, but normal red and gold interior.
Say hello to Ada.
Ada had been their daughter, not mine. And she had been dead for two years.
I show the line to the policeman, though, when he calls to see if I know where the Ebersole family have gone. He frowns and gives it back to me. ‘So you think their state of mind was disturbed?’
‘I have no idea.’ Do I think that? Having a wonderful time. They were on vacation. They had seemed fine when they drove off, Edda waving out of the window of their Studebaker until they passed out of sight. I look down at the tightly slanting letters she had written. It pains me to think of her forming the words and not being able to ask her why.
He tilts his head and takes the postcard back, peers at it. ‘Says here they’re going to the East Coast.’ He glares over the top of it. ‘And you really have no idea where they went?’
‘No. I’d have told you. I supposed Fort Lauderdale or Cocoa Beach or one of those places.’
